The Complete LaNague

  “Of course! The Vanek have their own income… why couldn’t they use it to start a general store of their own? A temporary co-op of some sort that they could operate themselves until Jeffers comes around?”

  Heber laughed. “The Vanek as shopkeepers? Ridiculous! A Vanek co-op would fall apart in a week. Their minds just aren’t geared to inventories, balance sheets, and so on. And besides, it’s not on the Great Wheel. You’d just be wasting your time. And remember, you haven’t got much of that.”

  “Why not?”

  “That government anti-discrimination bill – it comes up for a vote in less than two months. Some people who’re supposed to know what they’re talking about say it will pass, too. So you’d better think of something that’ll get the job done your way, or the butt-ins from the capital will come in and do it their way.” He punctuated the remark by spitting in the corner.

  Junior stood up. “I’ll come up with something.” He was now sure he knew the reason for Heber’s support. He started out but turned as he reached the door. “Thanks, Mr. Heber.”

  “It’s Marvin,” he said as he rested his feet on the desk. “And we’ll see who thanks who when this thing’s over.”

  The skim milk sky of pre-dawn found Junior on the road west out of Danzer. A small flock of black-feathered birds darted above him like a sprinkle of iron filings on its way to a magnet as he stopped for a rest at the halfway point to Zarico. It was a long trip to make on foot but he had no other means of transportation, and the general store there offered him the only possible hope of a solution.

  The sun was high when he first caught sight of Zarico and his initial feelings of déjà vu were heightened as he entered the town. It was as if he had traveled in a tremendous circle and wound up back in Danzer. Peck’s general store was of the same design as Jeffers’ and it too offered a hot lunch.

  “Are you busy at the moment, Mr. Peck?” Junior asked as the grizzled old man laid a steaming plateful of stew before him. The store was deserted, and now was as good a time as any to sound him out.

  “Not at the moment,” Peck replied amiably. “Why?”

  “Like to discuss something with you.”

  “Business?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Find yourself a table and I’ll join you in a minute.” He disappeared into the back. When he returned, he was carrying an earthen jug and two glasses. Seating himself across from Junior, he filled both glasses about halfway and pushed one across the table. “Nothing like a glass of wine at midday, I always say. Go ahead – try it. It’s my own.”

  Junior did so. The crystal clear fluid was light, dry, surprisingly good. “Very nice. My name’s Finch, by the way.” Peck nodded and they clinked glasses.

  “Well, now,” Peck said after a long swallow. “What can I do for you, Mr. Finch?”

  “I’d like to talk to you about the Vanek.”

  “Vanek? We don’t have any Vaneks around here. Oh, one or two may pass through now and again, but if you want to know about Vaneks, you’d best go to Danzer.”

  “I know all I want to know about them,” Junior said – which wasn’t true. “What I want to know right now is how you feel about them.”

  Peck finished his glass and refilled it, this time to the brim. “They’re all right, I guess. I’m not crazy about their spooky looks but I don’t see enough of them to care much one way or the other.” He noticed Junior’s empty glass so he poured him some more, then drained and refilled his own glass once again.

  “Would you mind very much if they bought their supplies here?”

  “Hell, no! I’ll sell to anyone who’s got the money to buy!”

  “How about lunch?”

  “Sure.” He drained his third glass of wine. “Sell them breakfast and even dinner if there’s enough of them wanting it.”

  “Would you let them sit here and eat just as I’m doing?”

  Peck paused in mid-pour at this thought, then sloshed the glass full.

  “I don’t know about that. Vaneks and Terrans don’t usually eat together in these parts. Might hurt my business.”

  “I doubt it. Where else is anybody in Zarico going to go? To Danzer?”

  Peck nodded slowly. “I see what you mean.”

  “And even if you did lose a few customers, I’m going to bring you one Vanek for every Terran customer you’ve got!” Junior smiled as Peck took a wide-eyed swallow. “That’s right. I can double your present business if you’ll let the Vanek eat lunch here in the store.”

  “How’re y’gonna get ’em here?” The wine was starting to take effect.

  “You must have something around here you use for transportation.”

  “Sure. I got an ol’ lorry out back. It’s a wheeled job but it gets around.”

  “Good. If you let me use that every day, I’ll be able to double your profits.”

  Peck shook his head. “No – no. Won’t work. Cause trouble.”

  “Why?” Junior asked, deciding that now was the time to get aggressive. “Is Bill Jeffers a friend of yours or something?”

  “Never met him.”

  “Then let me give it a try!”

  “No. People aroun’ here won’ like it.”

  Junior pounded his fist on the table with a ferocity that made the now half-empty wine jug jump. “Who owns this store, anyway?” he shouted. “You gonna let other people tell you how to run your own store?”

  Peck straightened his spine and slammed his own fist on the table. “Hell no!”

  “Good!” Junior said. He grabbed the jug and filled both glasses to the brim. “Give me a week, and if I can’t double your profits in that time, then we’ll call the whole thing off.”

  “I’ll drink to that!” said Peck.

  THE PLAN WORKED WELL for the first week – profits were not quite doubled but the increase was significant – and Peck extended the trial period. Twice a day, early morning and early afternoon, Junior would squeeze a dozen hesitant Danzer Vanek into the lorry, then ferry them to Zarico. He would return the first group at noon and the second later in the afternoon, then return the lorry to Zarico, where he’d spend the night. Peck had set up living quarters for him in the back of the store.

  Things went quite smoothly until the end of the second week. It was twilight and Junior was about to enter the lorry for the trip back to Zarico when someone grabbed his arms from behind and pinned them there. Then he was spun around. Before his eyes could focus on his assailants, a fist was driven into his abdomen and then into his face. This procedure was repeated until Junior lost consciousness. The last thing he remembered was being dragged along the ground, then nothing.

  Old Pete

  NEARLY A WEEK AFTER their first meeting, and Old Pete was in good spirits as he entered Jo’s office suite. He had renewed a few old acquaintances around town and had allowed the deBloise matter to slip toward the back of his mind. Jo looked up from her desk as he entered. There was a here-he-is-again sourness in her expression but he didn’t let it bother him. She was learning to tolerate his presence – she didn’t enjoy it, but put up with it as a necessary and temporary evil.

  “You know,” he told her, “I just saw a fellow walking down the hall with a rat perched on his shoulder. You taking animal acts under your wing, too?”

  “That’s no act, and that was no ordinary rat. That man – name’s Sam Orzechowski – has managed to tame rattus interstellus–”

  “Don’t try and tell me that was a space rat! Those things can’t be trained. If that were a real space rat, it would’ve swallowed the guy’s ear long ago!”

  “I checked his background and I can assure you he’s all he says he is. Now I have to find some commercial use for the rats. But that’s not why I called you here. We’ve got some information on what’s going on with deBloise and Dil.”

  Old Pete took a seat. “What’ve you found?”

  “Don’t know just yet. I put one of the best investigators in the business on the job. He called to say that he’s g
ot some interesting news.”

  “But he didn’t say what it was?”

  “He never says anything of interest when there’s the possibility that the wrong ears might hear it.”

  Something in her voice told Old Pete that there might be more than a professional relationship between Jo and this investigator.

  “When does he arrive?”

  “He doesn’t,” Jo replied with a quick shake of her head. “He never comes to this building. IBA uses his services on a regular basis and frequent visits would give away the relationship. We meet him in a few hours in the casino.”

  “That’s hardly what I’d call a secluded meeting place. It’s crowded day and night.”

  “It’s really an excellent place for exchanging information, if you lay the proper groundwork. I make it a practice to visit the casino once a week and he stops in whenever he’s in town. That way, no one thinks it strange when we run into each other now and then especially since we’re both avid pokochess players.”

  “Really? So am I. And I haven’t had a good game with another human in a long time; playing against a machine keeps you sharp but lacks something when you win.”

  “It must get lonely on that island.”

  “Only once or twice a year do I crave the company of others; but I’m never alone – I have me. Fortunately, I’m not one of those people who, when left alone, is faced with the unpleasant realization that there’s no one there.”

  The conversation ranged over various topics without direction until Jo brought it around to one of the trouble spots in her mind.

  “Did IBA do any investigating into my father’s death?”

  Old Pete nodded slowly. “Yes. On two occasions. Neither came up with anything useful. It seems that the head man around the town – I think his name was Heber, or Hever, or something like that – anyway, he seemed to have a genuine regard for Junior and made sure that our people had access to everything they needed for the investigation. He had done a pretty thorough job himself before word even got back to IBA that Junior was dead.”

  “Those aliens murdered him then?”

  “That’s what all the evidence says. I still can’t quite believe it, though. They’ve got a special marker for his grave and the vid recording of his funeral that was brought back–”

  “I know. I’ve seen it.”

  “Then you know that they thought of him practically as a demigod. It makes no sense.”

  “But you left his body there. Why? Not that I have any morbid need to see my father’s remains interred on Ragna; I’m just curious as to why you didn’t bring them back.”

  Old Pete shrugged. “Because his body belonged in that Vanek graveyard more than anywhere else.”

  Jo made no reply. She made a mental note to look up the copy of her father’s autopsy report, then her thoughts slipped back to the day her aunt told her that her daddy wouldn’t be coming back; that he’d had an accident on a faraway planet and had died. She remembered trying to hold back the anguish and fear and loss by smothering it with denial, but that didn’t work. It was true, she knew. Jo cried then, harder and longer than she had ever cried before. Her aunt held her for a long time, now and then joining her in tears. She was never that close to her aunt again. She could not really remember over crying again since then, either.

  Bringing herself back to the present with a start, she rose to her feet. “Time to go. I’ll drive.”

  As the flitter rose from the IBA roof, Old Pete sought to keep the conversation away from Junior.

  “I happened to see some of the figures on the currency exchange you started. Not exactly what IBA was intended for, but very impressive.”

  “Quite the contrary,” she said, relishing the chance to correct him. “It’s a natural outgrowth of the company’s activities. In the course of investigating new markets for clients, we have to keep tabs on the political and economic climates. The monetary policies of local governments are of prime importance, as you well know, so we began indexing rates of inflation, growth of the money supplies, et cetera, for each trade sector. I used some of that data to do a little personal currency speculation a few years ago and did quite well. If a novice like me could make a nice percentage with IBA’s index, I figured a currency expert working full time on it could open a new service to our clients. So we hired a couple and we’re doing all right.”

  “You keep much of your own money in that fund?”

  Jo shook her head. “I only participate on occasions when I can make a short term gain. If they tell me the Nolevetol krona is overvalued, I’ll sell them short; if the Derby pound is undervalued, I’ll buy a few bundles and wait. Otherwise my money sits in a vault as Tolivian certificates of deposit.”

  Old Pete nodded approval and said no more. His savings had also been converted to Tolivian CDs long ago. The banks of Tolive were considered an anachronism in many financial circles because they insisted on backing their currency 100 per cent with precious metals. The only coins the issued were 0.999 fine gold or silver, and a “certificate of deposit” meant just that: a given amount of gold or silver was on deposit at that particular bank and was payable on demand. The nominal government of Tolive had only one law concerning monetary policy: all currency must be fully backed by a precious metal; any deviation from that policy was considered fraud and punishable by public flogging.

  Old Pete liked the idea of hard money, always had. So did Jo. Apparently she had more in common with him than she cared to admit–

  –or with Junior. He was more used to her appearance now. At first sight of her last week, even with her hair darkened toward black, Jo had looked so much like Junior that he had been struck dumb for a moment. But the similarities went beyond mere physical appearance. There was an ambiance about her that reeked of Junior. Anyone who had known the man well would see it in her. He had, of course, expected that, but not to such a degree.

  The differences were equally startling.

  So like Junior, he thought, and yet so unlike him. I really shouldn’t be surprised. After all, their developmental environments were so different. And don’t forget the opposing sexual orientation.

  As his thoughts began to wander into forbidden ground, he was called back to the present by the sound of Jo’s voice.

  “There it is,” she said, and banked the flitter to the right. “By the way, if you like filet of chispen, they’ve got a restaurant in the casino that does a superb job on it.”

  The casino glowed below them like a luminescent fish of prey lurking on an inky sea bottom. Alighting from the flitter onto the roof, they were greeted by an elaborately costumed doorman to whom Jo was obviously a familiar figure. He bowed them through the arched entrance.

  The casino consisted of five large rooms arranged in a circular fashion. The elevators from the roof deposited you in the hub and from there you were given free choice as to the manner in which you wished to lose money. Jo headed directly for the pokochess parlor. This was her favorite game, a game of chance and skill in which each player was “dealt” a king, three pawns, and five more pieces randomly chosen from the twelve remaining possibilities. The two players could bet as each new piece was dealt and were allowed to raise the ante whenever a piece was taken during the course of the game.

  Pokochess was not too popular with the casino because the house could make a profit only when a guest played one of the house professionals. But the game was the current rage on Ragna and a pokochess parlor in the casino proved to be a good draw. Patrons could use the house tables for a small hourly fee.

  Jo stopped at the entrance to the pokochess section and ran her gaze over the room. It came to rest on a nondescript man in his middle thirties sitting alone at a table in a far corner. A shorter, darker man had just left his side and was headed in the direction of the bar.

  “There he is,” Jo said, a smile lighting her face. She started forward but Old Pete grabbed her elbow.

  “That’s the man you have working for you?” he asked in a start
led tone.

  “Yes – Larry Easly. Why?”

  Old Pete broke into a laugh. “Because that fellow moving away from him has been working for me – and he’s Easly’s partner!”

  “Really?” They started to make their way toward the corner where Easly sat. “Small galaxy, isn’t it?”

  Old Pete nodded. “Wheels within wheels, bendreth.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Oh, just an old, old expression that means pretty much what you want it to mean.” He threw her a sidelong glance. “You mean you never heard it before?”

  “Doesn’t sound familiar… where’d it originate?”

  “Never mind.” He didn’t want to bring that up again.

  Easly spotted them then, rose from his seat, and came forward. He and Jo clasped hands briefly, formally, but their eyes locked and held on after the hands had parted. Had he wished it, Larry Easly could have been a distinguished-looking man, but the nature of his work demanded that he downplay any striking features. So he made certain that his posture and the cut of his clothes hid his muscular build, that his complexion and the cut of his dark blond hair invited anonymity.

  Easly’s hazel eyes had a certain squinting quality, almost as if the light hurt them. But Old Pete noted that they were constantly roving under cover of that squint, missing nothing.

  Larry Easly extended his hand. “We meet at last, Mr. Paxton.”

  “I knew we would eventually,” Old Pete said, “but this is quite a surprise.”

  Andrew Tella returned then with a drink-laden waiter in tow. After shaking hands with Old Pete and being introduced to Jo, he handed out drinks – scotch to the former, a glass of cold Moselle to the latter – and they all sat down around a pokochess table.